


Midsummer Misadventures

by sweetdreamsofgelato (Dolceamara)



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Humour, Probably a lot of plot holes, Romance, Snark, please dont take it seriously, pure escapism, slow burn smut, somewhat alpha male hero, tropes and cliches up to your eyeballs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:22:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29265720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dolceamara/pseuds/sweetdreamsofgelato
Summary: Henry hires you as his property solicitor in an enemies to lovers misadventure to Scotland.I'm a mess and still suck at summaries.
Relationships: Henry Cavill/Reader, Henry Cavill/You
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

Of all the harebrained decisions you’d made in your lifetime, this had to take the cake.   


Not just this decision, but all the decisions you’d made recently were easily questionable. Each poor choice toppled into an even worse one like dominoes falling in a line, and it all started with agreeing to spend the better part of your summer holiday acting as Henry’s property solicitor—

Magnificently stupid, you didn’t need to be reminded.

—and it ended (for now) in a rather embarrassing predicament. You fidgeted in the soft leather passenger seat of the impressively kitted out 4x4, repeatedly crossing one knee over the other, and furiously regretted the choice to mainline caffeine over the hours since arriving at Edinburgh Airport. 

Henry was pointedly ignoring your existence from the driver’s seat, but that didn’t keep you from turning to him, your expression painted in pitiful and only-slightly-feigned entreaty. Hopes of appealing to his more soft-hearted nature (the entire existence of which was debatable) were dashed, however, when he didn’t bother to glance in your direction. His gaze remained mulishly fixed on the lonely, winding stretch of country roadway beyond the windscreen. 

Your stare grew harder the longer he ignored you until eventually he expelled an agitated sigh and said, “We’ve already stopped three times. You’ll just have to hold it till we get Muirford. Should be soon.”   
  
“That’s what you said more than two hours ago.” 

“Yes, well, I didn’t anticipate the traffic jam on the main road,” he rubbed one of his eyes with the back of his knuckle, “Or the rogue flock of sheep.” 

“It’s Scotland,” you muttered incredulously, not that it explained the former, but it had to be reasonable anticipation for the latter. Truthfully, if congestion on the desired route hadn’t forced you onto the country roads, the sheep probably wouldn’t have been an issue. “I told you it was better that I hire my own car.” 

“Why? So we both could’ve been stuck behind the sheep?”

“So I could detour if needed.” And you needed, badly.

“Had you mentioned you have a bladder the size of a pea, you would’ve won that argument,” he muttered through gritted teeth, and because he’d never been able to resist shooting holes in your arguments, “In case you forgot, they didn’t have any more vehicles available, so it’s a moot point—" 

You hadn’t forgotten. The whole day had been a farcical series of unfortunate events, and the five-hour delay out of Heathrow meant that, despite being a responsible, independent woman who made her own reservation for a car, there hadn’t been any available when you finally arrived. 

Henry had remarked that managing to secure one was exceedingly lucky, but you knew better. No agency worth their salt would risk their reputation by leaving a celebrity in the lurch. Henry always got what Henry wanted. It’d been that way ever since you were children, and it was just as maddening now as it had been then.

“—but if you insist upon arguing about it _again_ , taking separate vehicles still makes zero sense. Aside from being economically wasteful, think of the poor environment.”  
  
“You hired a _Range Rover,_ ” you spat back. “I have serious doubts that concern for the environment or personal economy factored into that decision.”

He finally spared you a brief sidelong glance, sardonic as it was. “I’m not stopping.”

Turning toward your window in a huff, you rested your chin in your palm, fingertips tapping restlessly against your cheek whilst you watched the scenery pass. It was impossible to focus, so you fiddled with the stereo settings, idly running through the channels on the satellite radio just for something to occupy your mind, but Henry lightly smacked your hand away.    
  
Urgency was quickly turning into desperation. The dull ache in your bladder was sharper and more insistent. You recrossed your legs again, clamped your thighs together, and silently pleaded with your brain to ignore the discomfort, but it was painfully obvious that waiting was not an option. “Please, just one more detour.” 

“You need to kick that caffeine habit.”

“I  _ need _ to use the toilet. Surely there is a service station nearby.” Even a tiny, filthy petrol station toilet sounded like heaven right now. 

“Have you taken a look around?”

The dusky pinks and oranges streaked across the late midsummer sky were fading into soft violets as the last vestiges of daylight began to dissipate. Twilight quickly muted the lush green of the expansive dales tucked between the rolling hills. Sheep— dull white and freshly shorn for the season—still mottled the pastures, along with shadowed patches of trees and a straggling cow. Oh, two cows. The whole picture of the lowland Scottish countryside was stunning in its bucolic glory, but unfortunately, there were absolutely no traces of modern plumbing in sight. 

A pitiful whine was the only answer you could muster.

Henry cursed your name before jerking the wheel to the left, and the entire carriage of the 4x4 jolted and shook over the crumbling edges of asphalt and onto a patch of worn earth to the side of the road.

The abrupt stop made you both lurch forward; Henry threw the gear into park and pointed toward a small grouping of trees and shrubbery outside your door. “Go if you need to go, but be quick about it.”

“In the  _ bushes _ ?”   


“Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“But—”   
  
“ _ Now _ .”

“Fine!” There was no other option and you couldn’t wait, but you still didn’t have to be happy about it. You threw the door open and barely bit back a groan as you scrambled out, your abdomen spasming painfully under the strain of your bladder “Don’t look!” you warned.

Henry rolled his eyes, his knuckles whitening with a death grip on the steering wheel before he leaned forward over the centre console and declared, “I have no desire to see your bare arse waving in the wind.”

“You should be so lucky…” you muttered under your breath before slamming the door in his face and making a beeline for the privacy of the shrubs. What exactly did he think was wrong with your arse? You had it on very good authority (albeit mostly your own) that it was a fine one, indeed.

Once you were sure you were out of eyeline from the road, you hastily yanked down your jeans and made quick work of relieving yourself. And  _ oh was it a relief. _

When you eventually hauled yourself back into the passenger seat, Henry was adjusting the settings on the satnav.

“Where are we staying? I want to put the name into the nav.”

The seat belt tongue in your hand immediately stopped on its way to the buckle. “I hope you haven’t forgotten where we’re staying, because you never told me the name of the place.”

Even in the dim light, you could see Henry pale. “You said you would make the arrangements because you didn’t trust me to do it properly. Whatever the fuck that meant.”

You felt the blood drain from your face with one fell  _ whoosh.  _ “I did not! I mean, I did say I didn’t trust you to do it properly—which it looks like I was correct about. I  _ offered _ to make the arrangements, but then  _ you _ insisted on handling it because you were already booking the flights.” You stabbed the seat belt tongue into the buckle. Of course, the one time you’d chosen not to argue or nag for details, everything went tits up. 

You stared at each other for a moment and the grim reality that you had nowhere to sleep set in. 

“Fuck!” 

Said in unison.

“This  _ fucking day _ ,” Henry ground out, briefly pinching his eyes shut as he took a deep, steadying breath. He threw the car back into gear, pulled onto the road, and didn’t waste time picking up the pace. “It’s fine. It’ll be fine. We’ll just go into town and find a place to stay.”

“Assuming there’s anything available,” you said quietly. You weren’t trying to be purposely negative or make him feel guilty about the situation, but there was a lot to be said about being realistic about expectations. Keep them low and you’re never disappointed. 

Henry didn’t respond, and he didn’t speak again until he pulled into the car park of the first inn he saw upon arrival in Muirford. “Looks like we’re in luck.” Henry pointed to a wooden sign hanging above the entrance door. “Vacancy.”

The breath you didn’t realise you were holding came out in a rush. “Finally, something has gone right.”

After gathering the bags from the boot space, Henry led the way in, holding the door for you to pass through. The dim lighting of the inn’s reception made the tired creases around his mouth and dark smudges under his eyes more prominent. He looked as exhausted as you felt. 

“Sit, I’ll take care of check-in.”

With a weary nod, you dropped into a time-worn and criminally soft sofa next to a low lit fireplace. It may be the middle of summer, but the air still held a bite in the evening. You resisted the urge to prop your feet on the small coffee table, but only barely. If you got too comfortable, there was no guarantee that you’d be able to get up again.

As promised, Henry saddled up to a polished oak counter on the far side of the narrow room and rang the bell for service. You heard some muffled jostling and a thump, and out of curiosity, you craned your neck to see it was about. 

“Guid evenin. How can I help ye?”

The greeting had a melodic local lilt and belonged to a young clerk who popped out of the tiny office tucked behind the counter. When he straightened to full height, you could see that he was tall in a gangly not-quite-ripe sort of way, with an unruly tangle of sun-streaked strawberry blonde curls and a smattering of freckles over his nose. He looked barely old enough to legally drink, let alone run the front desk of The Sheep's Tail Inn.

You slumped against the back of the sofa, your head and eyelids growing heavy with exhaustion from the stress from the day. Henry’s conversation with the clerk seemed more distant as it went on, with only about every third word funnelling into your hazy mind.

_ Wait, did you hear him correctly?  _ Your eyes popped open.  “What do you mean,  _ one bed _ ?” You shot straight up, panic immediately pumping adrenaline and newfound energy through your veins.

Pink stains bloomed over the clerk’s cheeks when he looked up and his voice was so quiet you could barely hear him. “Well...uhm, we’ve only one room left, an’it o-only has one b-bed…”    
  
He audibly gulped and his pale eyes darted nervously between you and Henry. The lad’s face grew five shades redder, possibly from embarrassment brought on by the image of you and Henry sharing said bed or maybe just from being forced to explain such a self-explanatory concept. 

“Room’s a suite wi’ a private bath, yer own kettle, and a sittin’ area. Sofa isnae too big, b-but the upholstery is brand new...” he rambled on in a skittish rush, obviously trying to sell the positives of the situation in a desperate hope to avoid more of a scene.    
  
Not that any nosy guests were milling about to witness it. There was barely an hour until midnight, so most were likely either amusing themselves at the pub you saw next door or already tucked into their rooms for the night. 

Henry cast the lad a warm smile and mimed for him to relax and take a breath. “I’m sold.” He casually leaned an elbow on the counter. “We’ll take it for however long as it’s available.” 

“Now wait just a minute!” You hoisted your bags in your arms with a loud huff and scrambled double-time up to the counter. “I have questions before we agree to anything.”

“Of course you do,” Henry drawled, watching you drop the bags next to your feet before lazily rolling his face, set with a look of commiseration, toward the young clerk. “She’s a solicitor. She always has bloody questions.”

The clerk’s chin dipped with a jerky bob in Henry’s direction, though his wide-eyed gaze remained fixed on you. His flush of embarrassment drained into complete ashen terror.

Perhaps, you decided as you skewered Henry with an unamused glare, given the clerk’s obvious youth and overall panicky disposition, a gentler approach would prove more effective. Folding your hands on the counter, you drew in a deep breath and smiled gently, making the best attempt at a placid and genial expression. “I am sure your suite is absolutely lovely...I’m sorry, what is your name?” 

“Gavin.” 

“Gavin,” you echoed through the most charming smile your exhaustion would allow. “Your salesmanship was exceptional; however, one bed simply will not work for our situation.”

“A’m very sorry fur the inconvenience.”

“No apologies necessary,” you said with genuine conviction. It certainly wasn’t his fault that you didn’t have a reservation or that there was only one bed available. “Are there any other inns in the area that might have more options?”

Gavin’s expression lightened. “Aye, there's The Squeaky Hinge further in toun,” his arm shot straight out to his side and made a vague motion in whichever direction was to his right.

“Well, that sounds promising,” you replied. Despite the questionable name of the establishment, you felt buoyed by potential. Perhaps some of Henry’s earlier optimism was catching.   


“Bit, unfortunately, the’r no rooms available.” Gavin’s arm flopped back against his side. His shoulders wilted with a slump, the air around him shifting from light with relief to thick with regret.   
  
Your face fell into your palms as you groaned, pressing your fingertips against your brow in a vain attempt to stymie the dull ache forming behind your eyes. Gavin awkwardly cleared his throat and you looked up, your fiery if frazzled gaze catching the lad’s. 

He scrambled to explain: “Mr Fraser, the owner, is in hospital. He tried tae rethatch part of the roof, e’en though we all told him no tae, and he slipped and fell in‘is wife’s brambles. A good chunk of the thatch went w’im, and it took an age to get him out. Mrs Fraser’s still in a right state aboot it.” 

“I, too, would be worried if my spouse fell off a roof,” Henry remarked with a sage tilt of his head, seemingly quite enthralled by Gavin’s retelling.    
  
“Oh no, she wis furious about the berries. This year’s batch of her famous jam is ruined, apparently.”

“Well,” Henry breathed with honest shock, “sounds like travesties all around. I do hope Mr Fraser survived, though.”

Gavin gave Henry a reassuring nod. “Aye, a fractured leg and a nasty knock to the heid, but he’s in good spirits. From what I hear, he’s enjoying chasin’ efter all the nurses. Weel, no actually chasin’—” he caught your pointed glare and quickly fumbled through the rest of his sentence, “—on account of the leg ‘n all.”

“I’m sure Mrs Fraser appreciates that,” you grumbled. “ _ Anyway _ , are there any  _ open  _ inns that have more than one room available?” Preferably roofed, but you decided to keep your sarcastic comment to yourself.

He looked at the clock on the wall and back to you. “‘fraid no.” To his credit, he looked genuinely apologetic. “Ye see, the midsummer festival’s just a few days away an’it always brings in folk from the surrounding area. We’v the last room in toun, but I can phone some inns nearby and check, if that better suits yer needs.”

It didn’t. Even if you managed to find another with vacancies at this hour, the extra distance would only add to the inconvenience of your situation, and you were not in the mood to entertain the possibility of prolonging your business just because you weren’t leaping at the prospect of sharing a bed.

Before you had a chance to respond, Henry cut in with decisive authority. “That’s very generous of you, Gavin, but it won’t be necessary. We’d be grateful for the suite.”

You rounded, hating that he agreed for you, but Henry squashed your protest with a stern yet exhausted look. “We aren’t exactly in a position to be picky.”

He was right, though domineering about it, which definitely made it worse. You were in no mood to give him the satisfaction of voicing your agreement.

Gavin looked between Henry and you once again, and you gave him a begrudging nod. He was visibly relieved and rushed to pull over an ancient-looking tome from the far end of the counter. Dropping it open with a weighty clunk, he leafed through the heavy parchment pages, stopping on one with a blank line waiting for a new signature, and swivelled it around to face Henry. 

“If ye’d be so kind as tae sign our guest book, I’ll sort out the rest.” 

Henry plucked a pen from the holder next to him and held it out to you, one eyebrow winged up in silent question.

“You’re paying for it,” you quipped with a dismissive wave before letting your head drop forward, your fingers kneading the knotted muscles at the base of your neck.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Henry make quick scribbles in the book, and then on the papers set out next to it. With a quick nod and thanks, Gavin tucked the signed paperwork away and retrieved the keys from the holder and dropped them into Henry’s open and waiting hand.

“Breakfast’s free, which ye can enjoy in the pub or, er—” Gavin inspected the guestbook entry, awkwardly glanced at Henry and then you, before his eyes settled back on the ledger. “— ye can request room service.”

“Thank you, Gavin. Don’t worry about the bags,” Henry said as he slipped the lad what looked like a very generous tip. “We can manage.”

Gavin nodded gratefully. “Suite’s on the second floor. Hope ye enjoy yer stay, Mr and Mrs Cavill.” 

Your head snapped up and twisted around so fast you thought it might spin clear off your shoulders. A strangled squeak tumbled from your lips as your jaw worked wordlessly around your shock (wholly undignified, but you would add that to the list of things to be angry about later).

“I’m sure we will. Thanks for your help.” As Henry swaggered toward you, he paused and dropped his lips low by your ear, but not so low to preserve privacy. “After you, darling.”

Nose-to-knees heat exploded across your skin: embarrassment, shock, and fury all rendering you mute as you watched him bend to retrieve your bags from the floor, all the while desperately willing your brain back to a functioning state. Henry straightened and immediately nudged his hulking form into your side, corralling you around the corner into a corridor and then in the direction of the stairs. 

Now you literally dug in your heels. The bottom of your canvas slip-ons scraped against the weathered planks under your feet as he propelled you forward. When the tips of your toes butted against the bottom step, your hands shot out and gripped the delicately carved newels framing the staircase, forcing you and Henry to an awkward stop.

“Fix it,” your voice cracked around the words as you finally found vocal agency. You spun around, hands becoming iron grips on the smooth bannisters, and your body curved back in an exaggerated arch in an attempt to keep space between your bodies. “Go back right this second and fix that book.”

Henry’s eyes drifted briefly toward the ceiling and he let out a sigh that sounded suspiciously bored. “Did I or did I not offer you the opportunity to sign the book yourself?” 

“I didn’t think you would sign for me as your  _ wife _ !” you hissed. You didn’t think he’d sign for you at all, to be honest. 

Henry’s shoulders rolled in an indolent, lazy shrug. “Sounds like a personal problem to me.”

“Fix it,” you repeated hotly, your chin jutting back toward the reception area. 

He leaned forward, inching incrementally closer until you could feel the warmth of his breath brushing over your face. His gaze fixed on yours, his lips turned in a wicked curve. “No.”

“Then you can find a new solicitor!” Why you even agreed to help him with this deal in the first place was beyond comprehension at the moment. Getting riled over an entry in a guestbook was probably excessive, and Gavin likely thought you either mad or a shrew; however, Henry had done it just to get a rise and now that he’d succeeded, if you didn’t protest then you were just handing him a win. It was galling.

He shrugged again but made no motion otherwise, remaining firmly in your personal bubble. “That’s fine. I am sure I can find someone local who wouldn’t mind an unexpected windfall.” 

Damn it all, that was why. You were positively vibrating with the urge to put his fat head through a window, but you wanted to get paid more than you wanted to wipe that arrogant smirk off his face. He’d agreed to such an absurdly generous fee for such a small amount of work that you’d be a fool to let it slip through your fingers now. 

In your silence, Henry let out a rough, knowing little hum that sent an involuntary surge of goose pimples over your skin. 

“Up,” his gaze flicked toward the landing above and then slowly slid back to yours, “or would you rather I throw you over my shoulder and carry you?”

You looked between the buttery caramel leather duffels in his one hand and your burgundy canvas bags in his other, then back at his face, and your eyes narrowed. “You couldn’t.” 

Not wouldn’t. Couldn’t. It was a shot aimed squarely at his ego. 

His volley was so lightning fast that you weren’t even able to process what happened until you were already over his shoulder. He had all the bags gripped in his left hand ( _ Christ, you knew he trained obsessively, but how strong  _ was  _ he?) _ , and his right arm maintained a vicelike grip around the back of your knees to prevent you from sliding any further down his back. Something you were thankful for given that your face was already dangling precariously close to the top of his arse.   
  
Not that you’d ever say it outright, but you had to admit it was a nice one. Even so, and despite—or perhaps because of—knowing him for most of your life, it was not something you really wanted to dwell on.   


“Alright, you’ve made your fucking point,” your face bounced against his back as he climbed the stairs two at a time, “you can put me down now.”

“This way’s much easier,” he huffed. “Almost there.”

“Are you saying I’m  _ difficult _ ?” You wished you could aim your glower anywhere but at his spine, but you didn’t dare try to turn or wiggle out of fear of being dropped down the stairs.

“I know better than to answer that question,” he grunted, his heavy footfall pausing a moment when he reached the landing, then picking up again as he quickly proceeded left. 

It took only a few steps before he stopped. You gripped his waist and swung your body to the side like a pendulum to see him standing in front of what you hoped was the door to your room.   
  
Then came your name in that sing-songy way of his that always preceded an off-colour remark. 

“Care to get the keys? Pocket’s fairly deep so you might have to dig around a bit to find them.”   
  
You could hear the teasing smirk in his voice, and you didn’t even try to resist the urge to mercilessly wrench the flesh of his sides between your knuckles. 

“Not a fucking chance, Cavill.”

His fingers bit into your thigh when he tried to twist away from your attack, but there was nowhere for him to go. “ _ Ow, for fuck’s sake, woman! Stop!” _

There was no hiding the satisfied smile on your face when he abruptly released the bags and dropped you roughly against the door. It wasn’t a graceful movement by any means, but you were silently thankful he didn’t just drop you on your head. You leaned against to solid wood, your body swaying woozily as your blood circulation began to return to normal.

“You’re a menace,” he hissed, rubbing idly at one of his sides as he pulled the key from his pocket and jammed it in the bolt. 

“You started it,” you muttered, stepping away from the door so he could swing it open, and you didn’t waste any time snagging your bags and going in.

You flicked the light on and immediately noticed that the ceiling was decently high. Not soaring, of course, but no one would likely suffer any bumped heads. The curtains along the far wall were already pulled closed, and you inwardly hoped they were thick enough to block out summer’s annoyingly early sunrise.    
  
A large wardrobe directly to your right created a makeshift corridor blocking the rest of the room from view. A few exaggerated steps forward and you saw a double bed with a beautifully worked wooden headboard. The mattress was high and crisply made with simple but comfortable-looking linens and a few overstuffed pillows. 

Henry passed on your left and you turned as you stepped out of his path. Along the wall opposite the bed was a long sideboard upon which sat a decently sized TV and a tray with an electric kettle, a few mugs, and a reasonably good selection of teabags. Just past the sideboard was a doorway through which Henry disappeared. You followed and peeked through to find on the right side a modest sitting area with a chair and writing desk tucked under a small window and the “not so big but newly upholstered” sofa next to it, which was probably more accurately described as a rustic chaise longue. To the left was the bathroom. You wanted to take a look, but the door was firmly shut. Through it, you could hear the distinct sound of running water.

It was all better than expected. A far cry from what you normally associated with the word “suite”, but it was certainly more generous than a standard room, and if you had to be stuck sharing with Henry for the duration, at least there was some space to spread out. 

Since your new roomie had commandeered the bath first, you make quick work of staking claim to half of the wardrobe. By the time you’d tucked everything away, Henry was done, dressed in a light henley and joggers, and looking about two seconds away from dropping. 

“It’s all yours,” he motioned toward the bathroom as he plugged in his phone by the bedside table on the opposite side of the bed. “I’m not waiting up. If you have a problem sharing, you’re welcome to sleep on the sofa.”

“How generous of you,” you murmured, but not with any real bitterness. Perhaps it was the exhaustion or maybe just resignation, but if you had to share then fine, just so long as you could sleep. It actually wasn’t the first time you’d shared a bed with him, and even if the last time had been before either you hit double-digits in age, there was no point in fighting about your current situation anymore. 

Sharing with him now was nothing more than an awkward inconvenience. As infuriating as he was, Henry did have principles and though he may eventually drive you mad, you were not in any way physically endangered. Henry had no desire to see your bare ass waving in the wind, remember?

He didn’t respond with anything more than a soft, “Night.” 

You set your phone to charge and dragged yourself off “your” side of the bed. The routine motions of settling in had keyed down your emotions, the adrenaline that coursed through your system was now replaced with grogginess that made your limbs leaden and your mind foggy. 

By the time you finished showering and readying for bed, Henry was already cosily tucked beneath the blankets, his soft, rhythmic breathing the only sound to be heard. 

With a sluggish stretch to rid your muscles of any lingering tension, you flicked off the lights, slid under the duvet and let sleep take you.


	2. Chapter 2

“Rise and shine.” 

Only about half a second passed between the time Henry’s voice jarred you awake and when the duvet was ripped off your body. 

Some things were sacred to you: the first cup of coffee in the morning, the last biscuit in the pack, cheeky cheesy chips and gravy after a night on the lash, but at the tippy-top of that list was sleep. The sanctity of sweet, blessed slumber was not to be violated.

Especially by _him_. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling. Every damned summer holiday your families took together when Henry felt you weren’t getting a quick enough move on and thus cutting into whatever good time he was anticipating—or perhaps just because he felt like being a twat (more likely)—would result in ever-increasing rude awakenings. To be fair, ripping the blanket off was pretty tame compared to an industrial size bucket of freezing cold water.

You hadn’t bothered to ask where he found the bucket or the icy water because you were too busy chasing him through the holiday house with every intent on murder, or at least, the closest you could get without risking incarceration. Your teeth chattered just at the memory, or perhaps it was just the cool air hitting your sleep-warmed body. 

The only positive that came out of that particular incident was Henry being forced to give up his bed to you because your mattress had to be dragged out into the sun to dry. It didn’t put an end to his insufferable pranking; it just made him smarter about it. Anything with minimal blowback was fair game. There was a modicum of relief that he wasn’t resorting to such infantile tactics now, but the wake-up call was unwelcome all the same. You didn’t care to think of yourself as juvenile enough to hold grudges, but your long history of constant animosity with Henry forced you to reconsider some of your more fundamental personality traits.

With a profane grumble and a rude gesture in the direction of his voice, you blinked blearily, Henry’s blurry form hovering somewhere around the foot of the bed. Your toes slid over the soft sheets, venturing tentatively over the mattress in search of the stolen blanket, your hands not far behind in joining the search. 

“Have some decency. I could’ve been naked,” you mumbled as you finally found the edge of the duvet and tugged it back up under your chin.

Henry gave you a look you couldn’t exactly categorise, mostly because you couldn’t completely make it out, but it rankled all the same. 

“Considering I woke up with you wrapped around me like a baby koala, I’m fairly certain I would’ve noticed if you were naked.” 

Your stomach gave a treacherous wobble and the tips of your ears burned. Exhaustion had been so overpowering last night that you’d slept like the dead, which left you with absolutely no recollection of anything between your head hitting the pillow and being so rudely awoken. No amount of mental fumbling managed to dredge up any latent memory of being wrapped around him, and you weren’t sure if you were thankful for that or not. You didn’t particularly want to remember if you had, but you couldn’t exactly refute his version of events if all you drew was a blank.

“You lie.” 

“I would never.”

A dissenting snort was your only response to that. You had plenty of evidence to the contrary, but good lord, it was too early for this. What time was it? You were still fighting through the haze of sleep, and with no caffeine yet to kickstart your system, the remark about your state of undress was a serious misfire. You had no doubts he was going to capitalise on it. 

“Do you think I enjoyed waking up in a chokehold with you drooling down the back of my neck?” 

Your vision cleared and your eyes fell on him as he made a vague gesture around his—for fuck’s sake, bare waist.

“One leg wrapped around me in a death grip.”

At least he was still wearing the bottom half of his jogging kit. 

His hand hovered further south, “with your foot three inches away from my—”

“ _Stop!_ ” Your hands shot up in supplication and your face felt on fire now. There it was; the price paid in embarrassment. Surely he was exaggerating, but you didn’t want to continue the conversation by arguing that point. “I don’t need the visual.”

“Firstly,” Henry cut in, “don’t look so scandalised. If anyone has a right to be, it’s me. I was the unwilling little spoon.” 

You yanked the blanket over your head.

His voice was slightly muffled through the barrier, but you could still hear him moving about the room. “Secondly, if I must suffer the indignity of it for the rest of my life, so will you.” 

There was more shuffling but after a few moments, Henry fell silent. A soft sigh of relief whispered across your lips. Finally…

“And _thirdly_ —”

You cursed through another sleep-gravelled groan. His voice sounded less indignant and far more curious, which never led to anything good.

“—if you were clothed when I left for my run but not when I came back, it does make one wonder what you were getting up to whilst alone.” 

“Nothing you’d deserve to know about,” said through the shield of the blanket.

“It’s nothing I _want_ to know about,” he stressed, “but still, an equally logical and unfortunate line of reasoning.”

The bed dipped and you rolled slightly toward the depression. You pulled the blanket from over your head, your expression already set in resolute annoyance, but you were unexpectedly greeted with the bare expanse of his back perched on the end of the bed in front of the open wardrobe.

“Ugh, put some clothes on,” you grumbled, scrambling back toward the middle of the bed.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” 

Looking was something you were actively trying to avoid, but seemingly suffering from some sort of stubborn reflex, you did anyway. You couldn’t see much around him. His broad shoulders, thickly corded with muscles that tensed and released under the smooth skin, blocked most of your view whilst he rummaged through one of the bags he pulled from the wardrobe. He was far larger than you remembered, but then again it had been some time since you’d seen him up close and in so little clothing. 

Most of your memories of him ranged from when you were small children sharing a paddling pool to when he was a lanky young adult growing into his newfound good looks and alleged charisma. Whilst you might reluctantly agree about the glow up, you had never seen a speck of anything resembling charisma. His appearance may have matured, but he still remained just as infuriating as ever.

Henry, undoubtedly feeling the weight of your stare, turned with a look of thinly-veiled exasperation as he pulled a fresh shirt over his head and closed the wardrobe door. 

You gave him a half shrug. “What? You told me to look.”

“That’s not what I said.” He pointed toward the sideboard across the room where a large tray sat next to the TV. “I brought up some breakfast for you.”

This was...unexpected. You spared a brief moment for internal irritation that Henry didn’t bother to ask what you might want to eat, but truthfully you weren’t feeling particularly picky at the moment.

“Seeing as you are having a leisurely lie-in,” the mockery was clear, “I didn’t want to waste more time waiting for you to eat in the pub.”

“Of course,” you deadpanned with a requisite roll of your eyes. Not actually a good deed. Probably for the better, otherwise the world may very well stop spinning. You yawned and carefully reached around him for your phone on the bedside table and noticed that he wasn’t exactly dressed for business. “What time is it?” 

“Time to get up.” He rose from the edge of your side of the bed without a backward glance.

“Oh for fuck’s sake Henry, it’s only just seven!” Given his impatience, you’d thought you slept well through the morning and actually ran the risk of being late.

“I’ve been up since half-past four.”

“I didn’t realise it was a competition,” you muttered, pressing your forefinger and thumb into your eyes to ease the budding headache. Lack of sleep was the likely culprit, but you were happy to blame it on Henry. Some things never change, and perhaps you did have a tendency to fall into competition with him over the most inane things, but you were more than happy to let him claim victory for being aggressively overachieving enough to wake before sunrise. 

You dropped your phone back onto the bedside table, tossed aside the covers, and dragged yourself upright to spot Henry just abandoned. Scrubbing your face with your hands, you tried to chase away the last stubborn traces of brain fog, but fatigue still tugged at the edges of your consciousness, drawing you into the nebulous dissatisfaction between relief from finally getting rest and not getting quite as much as your body truly wanted. 

With a hefty sigh, you stood and padded toward the sideboard, next to which Henry was preoccupied with his phone. Breakfast wasn’t your favourite meal and you often skipped it in your rush to get on with your day, but the combination of yesterday’s early airport dinner and late arrival at the inn induced your stomach into a persistent rumble now that you were awake. 

The tray was a simple offering: triangular slices of toast with generous pots of softened butter and jam, yoghurt and some fruit, and: “No coffee?” 

“I refuse to be an enabler,” Henry replied flatly. He didn’t bother to look up from his phone, but even from his profile, you could tell he was without remorse. It was egregious.

“Cruel.” Plucking a piece of toast from the holder, you gave it a generous slather of jam from the small pot on the tray. You took an inelegant bite and levelled the jam knife in his direction. “Just cruel. I— _wow_ that jam is fantastic _._ ” 

“I wonder if it is from Mrs Fraser’s reserves,” said Henry, finally looking up with a lopsided smile. His gaze shifted to your hand and his eyebrow flicked up as he gingerly removed the knife from your fingers and set it back on the tray.

“If it is,” you remarked through another bite, “I can understand why she is mourning the loss of her brambles.”

“Poor Mr Fraser.”

“Poor nurses, if memory serves.” You gave the toast and jam a closer inspection, trying to figure out exactly what kind it was. It definitely tasted of blackberries, but something else lingered on the palate. It was delightful and likely a heavily guarded secret of Mrs Fraser’s.

It wasn’t the caffeine jolt you were accustomed to, but the little bit of food was a restorative nudge your brain needed to inch closer toward full functionality. You polished off the last bite of the toast and brushed a few errant crumbs from your fingers, then asked, “What’s the agenda today?” 

If you were awake then might as well get to work. The faster it was done, the better. Henry sent a tentative itinerary before you boarded your flight, but at that moment, you were unwilling to abandon your breakfast to retrieve your phone to check the exact time of today’s preliminary meeting. 

“I’m not your secretary,” he remarked dryly, still scrolling through his phone.

“It benefits you to keep me informed, you know.”

“Haven’t I already done so?” Henry drawled as his gaze lazily slid from his phone to you. “What am I paying you for again?

“My breathtaking legal expertise,” you snapped, your temper sparking at his chronic inability to answer a simple question without an attitude. 

If he was going to harass you out of bed, the very least he could do was be accommodating. Stubborn you might be, but there was no denying that it was in both your best interests to at least try to get along, as insurmountable as that task seemed to be. 

“Speaking of which,” you added curiously. "Why do you even need me here? I could handle most of this from London.” And not have to be in his immediate presence to do it. 

“You’re just asking me this now? You’re not making much of a case for your attention to detail.”

Part of you wished you still had the jam knife in your hand. 

“I want you to see the property first,” he quickly added, before you had a chance to contemplate the best ways to flay him, knife or no.

“I’m not a real estate expert,” you stressed, “and I’m not a financial advisor.”

“That’s not what I need,” he explained as he finally set his phone aside. Removing a piece of toast from the holder, he prepared it just as you had and held it out to you. “What I need is someone with a shrewd eye and zero qualms about telling me if I’m being monumentally stupid.”

That _almost_ sounded like a compliment, and in the shock of it, a proper response eluded you, so you just gave him a questioning look and took the proffered piece of toast. 

He brushed the toast crumbs from his fingers. “It’s startling how many people in my life have turned into “yes men”. I need someone who I trust will treat me the exact opposite, hence,” he made an opening-handed gesture in your direction, “you.”

“I’m sure your brothers wouldn’t mind telling you that you’ve lost the plot.”

Henry let out a chuckle at that. “I don’t disagree, but unfortunately for me, not one has a law degree.”

"I could be a yes man...woman," you pondered aloud. "You never know."

Henry scoffed, “You are inherently incapable of agreeing with me. Why do you think I agreed to pay you so much? You'd never agree to do it otherwise."

He wasn't wrong.

"You are about as far away from a yes _woman_ as it gets," he continued, "which makes you both intensely irritating and tragically perfect for this job. If you manage to agree with me that my plan is sound, then I will know for sure that it is a good idea.”

“Of all the people in the world, and you need me.” You couldn't resist rubbing it in. 

“Trust me, no one hates it more than I do.”

“Don’t bet on that,” you muttered. Fair enough. If Henry wanted to pay you to insult him, you were happy to oblige. You wouldn’t even charge extra for the pleasure. 

“More toast?” he suddenly offered.

You immediately regarded him and the toast with suspicion. “Why are you feeding me?”

“I’m not feeding you.” Henry looked distinctly nauseated at the accusation. “I just don’t trust you with sharp objects.”

Disregarding your previous thought about the knife, you replied, “A jam knife is hardly a deadly weapon.”

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

“Well,” you said hotly, “I’m certainly motivated enough given—”

The buzz of Henry’s phone interrupted your thought and, without any polite excuses whatsoever, he quickly disappeared out the door to take the call. 

With nowhere to direct your ire but at the closed door, you let out a huff, polished off the rest of your breakfast, and grabbed a quick shower. By the time Henry returned, you were fed, clean, dressed, and more than ready to crawl back into bed for more sleep.

“Well, this is brilliant,” Henry muttered as he flopped onto the sofa in the sitting area next to the bathroom, the sarcasm in his tone indicating it was anything but. 

“Please, I beg you. No bad news,” you mumbled around your toothbrush. You looked up to catch Henry’s gaze in the bathroom mirror. “No caffeine yet. Can’t process disappointment.” You didn’t want to deal with it at all, but if you must, you wanted proper lubrication first. 

Not that that stopped him. “The owner has to postpone our meeting. Can’t meet until Tuesday, though he said we’re welcome to tour the exterior and grounds in the meantime.” 

“So we’re stuck here through the weekend?”

“Perhaps,” Henry tapped his phone against the palm of his hand, then threw his arm over the back of the small sofa when he shifted and turned toward you. “Or I can take you to see the property, the outside at least, and you can give me your opinions. If you think I’ve gone completely mad, then there’s no point in staying.”

That…actually wasn’t a bad idea. You’d still prefer to collapse back into bed for some extra rest, but if this whole thing was a wash anyway, then you could pack up and get back to your life sooner than anticipated. 

You nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Did you think I’d say no?”

“No arguments?”

“I don’t argue about everything.”

Henry shot a seriously dubious look in your direction at that.

“I don’t!” you insisted before taking a moment to spit and rinse. “It’s not my fault that our interactions always necessitate some sort of antithetical attitude on my part.” 

“Life is full of _choices_.”

You growled when Henry managed to dodge the toothbrush you hurled in his direction.

***

After his narrow brush with your toiletries, Henry disappeared downstairs to confirm you could keep the room if you decided to stay, so you took advantage of his absence and tried to get your blood pressure under control. 

He never failed. Never fucking failed to grate your nerves raw, and the fact that he never failed was arguably more infuriating than his actual behaviour. 

Some blame rested on your shoulders, you thought as you ripped your blouse off with a huff and roughly returned it to the hanger in the wardrobe. His behaviour was absolutely not your fault, but he only succeeded in being provoking if you let him, but no matter how many times you reminded yourself to not take his bait, you fucking did. It was like a pavlovian response to every cocky look, sarcastic smile, and smart-mouthed remark. 

If annoyance was an art form, then Henry was a master. 

Rummaging through the clothes you stored away in the wardrobe, you traded your smart trousers for a comfortable pair of joggers. Yanking them over your legs, you couldn’t help but admit to yourself that the dynamic between you and Henry was strange, to say the least. 

There was no friendship, that was certain, and you had no legitimate complaint about that. It was quite obvious that you didn’t like each other, but at the same time, perhaps a result of such prolonged forced proximity in the past, you weren’t necessarily uncomfortable around each other either.

Brought together by the bounds of your fathers’ life-long friendship, your families were practically inseparable during your childhood, and in a way, his family became an extension of your own. Memories from young childhood were fuzzy, but you had vague recollections that at one point you had gotten along with Henry. Perhaps even considered each other friends, but as you both grew older, so did the animosity and the rivalry. 

To this day, you still didn’t really know how it started, but it had remained such a constant thread in your life that it was hard to separate yourself from it. With age came a bit of maturity and wisdom, not enough to change the dynamic, but you realised that unless you cut yourself off from your family (and his) completely, Henry’s presence was unavoidable. Encounters became a practice in mithridatism and after great effort, you managed to tolerate him in infinitesimally small doses and only if absolutely necessary. 

When your paths did cross with Henry’s, there was never small talk. No catching up or reminiscing about old times long past. Just silent, begrudging acknowledgement of each other’s existences. Even when he proposed this ridiculous partnership, it was not cushioned with any trace of warm familiarity. Just: “Read this proposal and let me know if you accept.” That was it. No greeting or sign off. Not even: yours in eternal contempt. 

To be fair, it was probably a good thing. The more transactional, the better. 

If you didn’t kill each other first. 

There was a knock at the door and you paused halfway in pulling your favourite long-sleeved tee over your head. Your gaze caught the room key on the sideboard; it was probably Henry, but you were not in a charitable mood, so he could wait until you were good and ready to open the door. 

You retrieved the rest of your outfit and a small bag and shut the wardrobe, and then made a point of taking your sweet time slipping on your shoes. After pulling on a light zip-up hoodie, you snagged the room key, dropped it into your bag, and slipped your phone into your pocket. You hadn’t heard any more knocks, so you assumed that he was either waiting on the other side with an annoyingly cutting remark at the ready or wandered off to find someone else to irritate. 

Your phone buzzed as soon as you swung the door open, and in the split second you took to check it, you collided with a solid mass, who fell to the floor with a loud shriek.

Cursing loudly, you stumbled back and fell flat on your arse in front of your open door.

Whoever you knocked over was now from under a pile of fresh white terry cloth towels. You glanced at a small basket of linens and cleaning caddy off to the side and determined that unless Henry made a drastic career change, it wasn’t him.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs Cavill!” came a shrill, panicked voice from under the towels. A teenage girl scrambled out, strawberry blond curls rioting around her face, which was flushed a shade of scarlet so deep you could barely make out the dusting of freckles over her nose and cheeks. She scrambled to collect the towels. “I dinna see ye there.” 

The term of address didn’t even register as you wracked your brain; there was something strangely familiar about her. Your gaze narrowed in on her for perhaps a moment too long given the odd look she gave you in return.

Shaking yourself out of your self-induced trance, you knelt down and quickly helped her gather the towels. “Please, don’t apologise. It was totally my fault.”

“I shouldna’ve stood in front of your door.” She stood and took the towels from your hands with a murmur of thanks and set them in the housekeeping basket.

“ Have—were you the one who knocked earlier?”

“Aye. I thought tae knock again, but I didna want tae disturb ye.”

“So...you waited?” Seemed overly diligent on her part, but you did feel a slinky pang of regret for not having answered the door. 

“This is my last room tae service, and yer husband mentioned ye were coming down shortly, so I assumed ye’d open the door eventually...” Her voice trailed off into awkward silence under your scrutiny.

“Have we met?” you asked suddenly, your mind continuing to rumble down its solitary track. The question sounded brusque even to your own ears, but you couldn’t shake how familiar she looked and it would drive you batty until you figured out why.

“I dinna think so.” She flushed again, looking slightly unnerved as you stared at her nametag.

 _Annie._ The name wasn’t helpful, but when you glanced at her face again, it finally hit you. God, you really were slow on the uptake this morning.

“Are you related to Gavin?” If she wasn’t his twin, you would eat your non-existent hat. 

“Aye, he’s ma brother.” The words held no endearment, and her expression twisted with displeasure. “A whole three minutes older and daesna miss an opportunity remindin’ me. Like it gives him some sort of authority,” she scoffed as she stooped down to retrieve her cleaning caddy. 

It was hard to imagine Gavin bossing anyone around given how skittish he was with you the night before, but sibling rivalry can bring out the very worst in people. You witnessed enough of it between Henry and his brothers that it made you downright thankful for being an only child. Sure, you might have shared some sense of rivalry with Henry too, but at least you weren't forced to live with him.

_Only share a bed. Ugh._

You gave a small hum of commiseration, your eyes shifting toward the stairwell that led down to reception. 

“Wis there anything else I can help ye wit?” Annie’s expectant look bounced between you and the open door to your room. 

“Can I get a cup of coffee downstairs?”

“Just find Jack. He runs breakfast, so he’ll get ye whatever ye need.”

You gave Annie a sly smile. “Not another brother, I hope.” 

“Only cursed wit the one, mercifully.”

You gave her a grin and a nod. “Thanks, Annie,” you said, turning and in the direction of the stairs.

“Yer welcome, Mrs Cavill.”

That stopped you in your tracks. _Shit._ In your single-minded pursuit earlier, you forgot to correct her. You turned sharply and blurted, “I’m not—”

But the door shut with an echoing click.

An irritated rush of air streamed from your nostrils. “Fuck.”

Making your way downstairs, you were greeted by no less than three members of staff, all addressing you as Mrs Cavill as you passed and none sticking around long enough for you to correct them. By the time you reached the landing on the ground floor, you were ready to strangle Henry anew. 

If you remembered correctly, the entrance to the pub was through a small sitting room next to reception and that seemed the most logical place to start looking for Jack. 

Coffee first, then you were going to make yourself a widow.

**Author's Note:**

> No update schedules as of right now just because RL doesn't allow me to make commitments, but it is an ongoing story
> 
> Find me on Tumblr @ https://sweetdreamsofgelato.tumblr.com/


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